


devil won't go down easy

by the human eyes emoji (nicole_writes)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drama, F/M, Implied Mutual Attraction, Just not outrightly stated from one side, Mentioned Blue Lions Students (Fire Emblem), Mentioned Yuri Leclerc, Minor Violence, One-Sided Attraction, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex as an unhealthy coping mechanism, Sexual Tension, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unresolved Romantic Tension, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:20:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27693329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicole_writes/pseuds/the%20human%20eyes%20emoji
Summary: There’s nothing holy or sanctified about their lives. They grow up in shadows, learning to see in the dark rather than turn on a light.It’s a family business,they’re told, right from the start.You’ll understand it eventually.- how it starts / mob au
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Ingrid Brandl Galatea & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	devil won't go down easy

**Author's Note:**

> hi!! this is a payback fic. (have fun mish)
> 
> thank you to liv who beta'd this for me and left me a series of encouraging and silly comments to ensure that i wasn't crazy in writing this. this is a prequel!!! to another fic on my sfw pseud i wrote recently. I'll link it in the end notes!
> 
> and warnings ahead for unhealthy coping mechanisms and specifically the use of sex as an unhealthy coping mechanism.

There’s nothing holy or sanctified about their lives. They grow up in shadows, learning to see in the dark rather than turn on a light. 

_It’s a family business_ , they’re told, right from the start. _You’ll understand it eventually_.

Sylvain is fourteen when he first tastes the truth of that life. It tastes like bitter, sour liquid that burns when he swallows, but it’s the feeling of floating and thoughtlessness that makes him think: _yes, I understand._

He gets his first gun at seventeen and his first bullet wound at eighteen. Miklan’s laughter is burned into his memory, even after his father chases the older son away. The wound is nothing serious and his father calls a private doctor, one on Blue Lion payroll, to deal with it under the radar. 

Later, Sylvain gets drunk enough to forget the incident entirely until he’s left with the consequences of his decisions.

What happened to Miklan is kept quiet amongst the powerful families of the Blue Lions, spoken about only behind closed doors and in concealed whispers. Sylvain doesn’t flinch when they stare, he’s not the type, but it’s the way that Felix Fraldarius looks _through_ him that makes him start to lie and lie and lie. 

* * *

Sylvain’s reputation for his silver tongue has been festering since long before then, but he hardly puts it to work until he’s nearly twenty and the Blue Lions dangle on the precipice of new operations and leadership. 

As tradition, the Blaiddyd family, long the most powerful and influential of the Blue Lions, poses eighteen-year-old Dimitri as a challenge to Sylvain and Felix for the spot of kingpin. The Galatea’s present Ingrid, who is younger than Dimitri yet older than Felix, to challenge. 

The four of them have grown up entwined and familiar with one another. Years ago, Felix might not have stood for this role, but Glenn Fraldarius is dead, so here he is. As expected, Felix cedes first, mostly out of spite. Sylvain looks at Dimitri and Ingrid. He has no personal interest in leading. He steps back next, to his father’s dismay. 

Ingrid Galatea is left alone to challenge Dimitri Blaiddyd. Sylvain wonders, for just a moment, if she’ll go through with it. As a child, Ingrid had loved stories about knights and glory and chivalry while their families slunk further into the shadows, spinning Garreg Mach further into the underworld’s web. Now, at eighteen, Ingrid Galatea is no longer interested in white knights and fairytales. 

She cedes to Dimitri, kneeling, and he calls for her to rise. She stands as a black knight–the first of the new generation. 

There’s nothing angelic or divine about their Blue Lions either. They’re not clean or legal or forgiving. They spin the same webs as their parents, expanding their reach, with bared teeth and claws at the ready. They learn their places and tread after their parents, strengthening this kingdom that came before them. 

They bring newcomers into their fold, but Sylvain still finds himself orbiting the other three. His specialty is lying and betraying and negotiating. Dimitri’s strength is in his leadership: a pillar of strength, despite the weights he nearly crumbles under. Felix’s discipline lies in intelligence and cunning. He keeps track of their enemies and makes them more than a few new ones. Ingrid, the knight, protects them. 

He doesn’t notice it happening until it’s already spiralling towards him and he’s in far too deep. 

* * *

Sylvain is twenty-two when he kills a man wearing the black iron Black Eagle pin. He doesn’t like guns that much, but he is rather partial to knives. After, once their clothes are burned and cleaned and the scene of _the incident_ is tidied up, the blood clings under his fingernails. Felix has a new bruise on his face and Ingrid walks with a half-limp, but they have his back. The three of them together make a deadly ring but Sylvain doesn’t think about those consequences until they get back to their hotel and Felix locks himself away and Ingrid knocks on his door at nearly three in the morning. 

She says nothing when he answers the door, ducking under his arm and then extending a leg to push against the door, using his weight to push it closed. Ingrid turns away, stepping into his room, and she makes for the cheap decanter atop his dresser. She pours herself a heavy drink and downs it quickly. 

The room’s lighting turns her skin pale and her hair to a near silvery-gold as she grimaces through the drink. She places the glass back down, heavy-handed, and draws her gun from the holster at her thigh. She lays it down next to the glass and the decanter and stares for a moment, frowning. 

Sylvain approaches her. There’s something dark in her eyes, like a poisonous snake, and it feels intoxicating when she looks at him. There is anger and sadness and frustration and satisfaction on her face. There’s nothing celestial about her, but the pull in his chest says otherwise. 

“I killed two people today,” she says, her voice hard and sour around the words. 

Sylvain sees her then: Ingrid Galatea, twenty-years-old, a murderer. 

“I’ve killed half a dozen,” he replies, not tearing his eyes off of her. 

She turns on the lamp on the dresser and then reaches for the switch on the wall, turning off the main light. The lamp basks the room in yellow light. She is practically glowing, backlit and golden, when she steps closer to him. She creeps into that unspoken space between them, where the lines begin to blur. Her breath smells like spiced whisky and Sylvain is almost certain that she’ll taste like it too. She leans into him, her hands skimming across his chest. 

That feeling is back, tugging at his stomach again, and he almost doesn’t notice it when she starts to speak. 

“I want to feel something,” she says next, the words razor sharp. 

Sylvain has seen Ingrid in a dozen life-threatening situations. He has memorized the sound of her laugh and the different smiles she can wear. Here, looking at him where she is lit only by an old lamp, she looks like she is asking to be ruined. She doesn’t smile, but the harsh glimmer in her eyes tells him as much. Sylvain is not sure that he can do that to her, even as he bends, falling into her. 

Ingrid takes his silence as complacency and she pulls him into a kiss. Her lips are warm and she tastes of whisky, as he had expected. Sylvain opens his mouth and drinks her in, winding his arm around her waist and pressing them together as he steals her breaths with his own. 

Her head tilts back and she lets him deepen the kiss until they’re both breathless and ragged, tied up in each other’s spaces. Sylvain’s hand wanders, skimming down her back until he reaches the hem of her shirt. He slides it up, pushing until his palm finds smooth, warm skin. Ingrid pushes her lips back against his, inhaling sharply through her nose as he touches her. 

Sylvain pulls back, tugging her lip lightly between his teeth. “Ingrid,” he breathes. 

She chases him, trying to kiss him again. When he straightens, refusing her, she grabs for his hand and slides it around to her front, still under her shirt. She tries to drag it up the corded muscle of her stomach to the curve of her chest and Sylvain resists, frowning at her. 

“Ingrid,” he repeats.

“I know what I’m asking for,” she says, sounding both breathless and frustrated simultaneously. 

Sylvain’s fingers drum slowly against her stomach. “When I ask you this, tell me the truth.” He leans in closer, just barely letting their mouths graze together again. Ingrid tries to arch into him and he leans away, keeping control over how much contact they share. “Have you ever laid with someone?”

She doesn’t lie to him–never has. “No.” Her hands grip his shirt, refusing to let him back away from this. “Sylvain,” she says and his name sounds like sin on her lips. 

It makes him want to drop the pretences and let her take what she has come here for. He wants to take from her, selfishly, hungrily, but he keeps his restraint. 

“I can’t,” he tries. 

She scowls. “You won’t.”

The wretched part of him tightens his grip on her and lets his hand slip inches higher, the tips of his fingers just barely grazing the bottom of her chest. 

“You shouldn’t be with me,” he says next. “Your first is different.”

“I don’t want it to be,” she says, stubborn as ever. “I want it over and done. I want to feel it.”

He sees it then, why she has come to him. She has known him just as long as they have both known Felix or Dimitri, but this is a matter she entrusts only to him. She knows him to be open with his prowess and tight-lipped in his experience, a combination that must be appealing to Ingrid. She’s tired of being young, he guesses. She is of an influential family in one of the most powerful mobs in the city, but she feels young and untouched and it’s a tiring feeling. 

Sylvain kisses her, open-mouthed and slow. “I won’t take what you want me to,” he murmurs. “But let me help you feel something.”

The words are muffled by the kiss but she leans into him, one hand scratching up his neck into his hair. Sylvain licks into her mouth until she tears away, gasping for air. He brings her closer and nips at her jaw. She huffs and squirms against him, but Sylvain holds her tightly as he sucks and licks down her jaw to the top of her neck. 

He drags his teeth across her sensitive skin and she gasps, her fingers tightening in his hair. Sylvain smiles into her neck as Ingrid pushes onto her tiptoes, her nails digging into his scalp. Still wrapped around her, Sylvain nudges her back towards the bed. They almost collapse onto it when Ingrid’s knees bump into the bed, but then Sylvain reluctantly loosens his grip, pulling away from her. 

He nudges her shoulder until she sits on the bed and leans over her until she slides back, crawling towards the middle of the bed. Sylvain goes for the hem of her shirt then, rolling it up over her torso. He slides it over her chest, letting the backs of his knuckles graze against her curves and Ingrid blinks at him, her eyes heavy. 

“Arms up,” he whispers as he edges the shirt up higher. 

She does as he asks, lifting her hands and Sylvain nudges her shirt up and over her shoulders, over her head and onto her arms. He pauses there, leaning down over her to kiss the top of one of her breasts, just above the cut of her bra. Ingrid’s chest heaves and she tears her shirt off the rest of the way herself. 

Her hands dig into his hair again as she pulls him up, sealing their lips together in a kiss that is messier and warmer than their first few and Sylvain lets his hands skirt up her sides, teasing, as he kneels between her legs. He props himself up with one arm and lets the other hand cup the side of her chest and start kneading lightly. 

“Sylvain,” she murmurs against his lips. 

He pulls back just enough to see the flush in her face and her swollen, kiss-bitten lips. He smirks, amused, and Ingrid frowns. 

“Please,” she says, her voice breathy. 

He leans in, kissing the corner of her mouth. “Please, what?”

“You said you’d make me feel something,” she says. 

He slides his hand down but he stops just at the button at the top of her pants. “Show me what you like,” he says. 

Her cheeks flush further, but the alcohol lowers her inhibitions and Ingrid reaches between them, unbuttoning her pants. Sylvain leans back, shifting to lie on his side next to her as she kicks her pants down. His eyes catch on the wide, purpling bruise on her thigh, but Ingrid pays the injury no attention. 

She hesitates then, avoiding his gaze and stilling her hands. She looks embarrassed. Sylvain leans forward and presses a kiss to the top of her shoulder. 

“It’s okay,” he assures. “Don’t be embarrassed.”

Ingrid bites her lip, still not looking at him. Her hands rest against her stomach, hesitating. He leans in again, sucking at the skin in the crook of her neck. Ingrid jolts, but she gives a breathy sigh. Sylvain hums into her skin and continues laying kisses across her shoulder and up her neck. 

“It’s okay, Ing,” he says again. “Show me what you like.”

The fact that he is busy kissing her seems to ease some of her worries, and she lets her fingers trail lower, pushing down the band of her underwear. Sylvain slides one hand to her chest and kneads gently as he watches her dip her fingers between her legs. Her eyes flutter shut as he watches her move her hand, setting her own pace. 

This Ingrid, the one tangled atop his bedspread with her legs spread and her eyes closed and lips parted, is a far cry from the Ingrid he normally sees. That Ingrid is confident in herself and all hard edges. This Ingrid is shyer, but not unfamiliar. 

She makes a short, whining noise and Sylvain’s breath hitches. He shifts, sliding down the bed until he rests between her legs. He slowly curls his hand around hers and slows her to a stop. Ingrid’s eyes open and her chest heaves as she takes in the sight of him between her legs. Sylvain pushes her hand away. 

“Let me,” he says, his voice rumbling in his chest. 

Ingrid’s breath hitches as he replaces her fingers with his own. He goes slower, stroking in gentle circles until her hips stutter against him. Her hand grips his hair as she gasps, twisting underneath him. 

Sylvain doesn’t watch his hand, keeping his eyes focused on her face as she starts to come apart. He teases her with his touch, scratching his nail over her and moving faster before he slows down. She whines, the noise hitching high in her throat and Sylvain’s own body stirs at the noise. He wants her to do it again. 

He adjusts, trailing a finger further back and Ingrid whines again. “Ingrid,” Sylvain murmurs, “can I?”

“Yes,” she gasps. 

He slips his finger in and Ingrid gasps, her hips jerking. He pushes against them with his other hand, pressing her down as he moves, dragging as slowly as he can. He watches her face as he moves, drinking in her flushed cheeks and scrunched-shut eyes as she trembles underneath him. 

“Sylvain,” she moans, her voice wavering. 

Something darker and heavier ignites in his stomach and he slides two fingers into her, faster. Ingrid keens, yanking on his hair again as her back arches and she whines. She bucks into his hand when he curls his fingers in her and whines his name again. Sylvain adjusts the angle of his wrist and doesn’t let up. 

He drops his other hand and rubs hard as he strokes. Ingrid whines and moans and twists underneath him and Sylvain wants to devour her. She looks breathtaking here and he wants to set his mouth to her until her moans aren’t coherent words anymore, but this is not the place. She has come to him tonight to feel something. It’s not the time for him to indulge in his selfish desires. 

He moves his torso up, resting more weight against her as he curls his fingers again. She jolts, whimpering his name. As much as he wants to see her come undone beneath him, to take her apart slowly and listen to her cry out, he doesn’t draw it out. He speeds up a bit more, pressing his head against her shoulder and biting down lightly on her collarbone. 

She reaches a natural peak then, clawing at his back as she trembles around his hands, singing his name like an angel. 

Sylvain lets her come down a bit before he moves away. He slides off the bed entirely and Ingrid sits up slowly, her hair wild and her cheeks flushed. 

Her voice sounds dry when she speaks. “Sylvain.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, turning his head. It’s a dismissive action. He hears her shift behind her, probably gathering her clothes. Sure enough, by the time he turns back to face her, she is flattening her shirt down, fully dressed. 

“Sylvain,” she says again, her eyes drifting over him, “I want to–”

“Don’t,” he says sharply, twisting his body away from her. “We’re finished here, Ingrid. I’m fine.”

She should be furious at him but she doesn’t say anything else as she straightens herself out. She takes her gun back, holstering it, and leaves without another word, the door banging shut in her wake. 

Sylvain groans to himself, dropping back onto the bed, his feet on the floor. He closes his eyes, but he cannot unsee the image of Ingrid in his bed. His mind fixates on her and the way that she had said his name. He thinks about how he wants her–entirely, completely–but how he can’t give her what she asks for. 

She had asked to feel something. She had offered him her body and Sylvain had wanted her heart. He had given her something, to remind her that she is human, but he had not taken in return. He has always been a selfish lover, taking whatever he is given, but he had been unable to do so with her.

 _Selfish_ , he tells himself. _You don’t get to be selfish with her._

* * *

The next day, Ingrid has gone back to treating him as she always has, as if the stolen moment in the wee hours of the morning had never happened. Sylvain touches her arm, curiously ( _selfishly_ ) as they, plus Felix, pile into the car that comes to fetch them from the hotel. She doesn’t pull out of his touch, much less give him a strange look and he wonders if she has really chased away the memory so quickly. 

Maybe it would be easier if they both just forgot it.

But Sylvain can’t. He tries. He takes four different women to bed in nine days. The first he kicks out of his bed in the morning, citing a desire for nothing serious. The second leaves on her own accord because apparently, Sylvain won’t look at her face. That probably has something to do with the fact that she’s blonde, but her blue eyes aren’t the green he had been looking for. The third, Sylvain leaves. He tries to be selfish with her, like he always is, but when she starts crying his name, he aborts the act halfway through, feeling ill. The fourth slaps him on her way out when he comes shuddering another woman’s name, Ingrid’s flowing blonde hair and green eyes burned in the backs of his eyelids. 

If Ingrid notices that he’s in a funk, she says nothing besides her usual lectures about his irresponsible nature. 

Either way, she doesn’t come back to him and Sylvain can’t get the image of her out of his head ( _or his heart)_. 

* * *

Sylvain’s good enough at picking up hints. He figures it out, after about a week, that Ingrid is not interested in discussing, much less reliving their early morning entanglement. He turns his eyes elsewhere and Ingrid gets back to work and they both fall further and further into the Blue Lions. 

Sylvain publicly takes on a position as his father’s soon-to-be-successor and Ingrid gets wrapped up in protecting Dimitri. He sometimes goes weeks without seeing her because of how different their roles have become. Yet, when it comes to it, they find their way back to each other. 

Sylvain is twenty-three when Dimitri asks him to go to a business meeting with Claude von Riegan, the young, interim leader of the Golden Deer. He agrees readily, not thinking anything of it, and he’s getting dressed for a trip to Fódlan’s Locket to play some cards when he is interrupted. 

Cufflinks half-fastened, Sylvain answers the door to his suite and finds Felix standing on his doorstep. Sylvain steps back, granting his friend access to the room, and Felix strides inside, his whole body tense. 

“Don’t do anything stupid tonight,” Felix snaps. “This isn’t just a game anymore.”

Sylvain crosses his arms. “I’m aware of what’s at stake, Felix.”

Felix scowls. “We make this deal with the Deer and we’re safe for a year. We don’t and we’ll have the best damn snipers in the city coming after us.”

Sylvain narrows his eyes. He’s well aware of what a war between the Golden Deer and Blue Lions would mean. The Blue Lions and Black Eagles have been in a proxy war for years now, and if tensions boil over between the Lions and Deer, the city will be torn apart. Felix is right in saying that the best snipers in the city, probably the country, are on Golden Deer payroll and that’s not something that the Blue Lions can afford to have come after them, especially when he, Felix, and Dimitri are all expected to make regular public appearances for the sake of image management. 

Sylvain finishes affixing his cufflink and adjusts his tie. “I’m not going to do anything stupid, Felix. It’s a simple negotiation. One that I can handle. Now, are you here to chew me out or do you have an actual purpose for visiting me?”

“Dimitri took me off your detail tonight,” Felix answers, sounding bitter. 

Sylvain is surprised. Felix has been on almost every security detail that Sylvain has had follow him on missions. Until the incident last year, Ingrid had too, but she had taken a step back from that role, focusing her attention on Dimitri. For Felix to be taken off Sylvain’s detail, something big has to be going down.

“Why?”

“He needs me for a meeting with the Eagles.”

Sylvain raises an eyebrow. He hadn’t known about any meeting with the Eagles. “Really?”

“For some reason, he thinks it’s a good idea to meet Edelgard again. It’s not like it’s going to change anything. It never does. He’s bringing me and Dedue and that’s all. She’s bringing Hubert and Ferdinand.”

“Ashe’ll be nearby, right?”

“Of course. Just as I’m sure Bernadetta will be.”

Sylvain nods. “Then who’s on me? If this deal is such a shaker, who’s on me?”

Felix shifts his weight and even the slight discomfort on Felix’s face answers Sylvain’s question quite easily. Sylvain nods slowly. It makes sense. If Felix and Dedue are on Dimitri, it’s natural that Ingrid will be watching his back. 

“Of course,” he says, nodding. “I probably could have guessed that.”

Felix frowns at him. “You’re still being weird.”

Sylvain blinks. The image of Ingrid in his bed flashes through his mind. “What?”

“You’re both weird about it,” Felix says. He folds his arms. “Whatever.” He stalks towards the door, pausing once more at the threshold. “Don’t die.”

Felix disappears and Sylvain is left to wonder what Felix is talking about when he says weird. He has seen Ingrid only sparingly recently and he doesn’t remember it being weird. Sure, they’ve not been attached at the hip like they had been when Ingrid had been going on ops with him and Felix regularly, but that’s just because they’ve been tackling different roles recently. Sylvain is still doing his usual thing in bedding whichever woman clings to him with the least intention of staying and he’s finally gotten over that unfortunate, aching desire to devour Ingrid that had awoken in him back in the hotel. 

He can do not weird. 

* * *

The deal goes off smoothly. Claude draws a clear line and Sylvain blurs it just enough that they shake over silvered smiles and poker chips on the crowded VIP floor of Garreg Mach’s most illustrious casino. The Blue Lions have a point to sink their teeth into and the Golden Deer have a promise of owed response regarding aggression from the Eagles. 

It’s not the best deal, but Claude is the toughest negotiator that Sylvain has ever faced. He’ll give the man credit on that front. Sylvain tries his charm on Hilda Goneril, Claude’s right hand, but she’s just as sharp at the table, sweeping more than a few of his chips away with a sugary smile. 

Over comms, Ingrid laughs at him. 

Later, when they’re in the limo on their way back to Blue Lion turf, he watches her disassemble her personal armoury. She leaves her taser, gun, and one of her knives in the limo as she spins her outfit–a sharp, fitted suit–into something that looks more like she might be on her way to a dinner out. 

Sylvain checks his watch. It’s nearly midnight. “What are your plans for so late tonight?” he asks, almost without thinking. 

Ingrid freezes. “What? I don’t have plans.” 

Sylvain studies her. He knows the twitch at the corner of her lips to betray her tell and he’s offended that she even thinks that she has to lie to him about it. It’s not like she’s being particularly subtle. 

He leans back into the seat of the limo. “You’re meeting someone. I can tell. I know you well enough.”

Ingrid’s mouth opens and then closes. Her comeback dies, quite obviously, and Sylvain chuckles to himself. She huffs and crosses her arms. 

“What’s it to you, Sylvain? What if I am seeing someone?”

“Are you?” He’s curious, that’s all. The sudden, burning brand of jealousy in his stomach has nothing to do with why he asks. 

“I am,” Ingrid says firmly, lifting her chin. She says it like a challenge, like he should fight her on it or call her out. 

“What’re they like?”

The question seems to make her balk, as if she hadn’t expected him to take the information that well. 

“He’s good,” Ingrid says after a minute. 

Sylvain raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Ingrid rolls her eyes. “Don’t start with me.”

The jealous roils, contested, in his stomach and he forces a laugh. “Good, yeah,” he says, letting it slide a bit. “Do I get a name or anything?”

Ingrid sighs heavily. “If maybe, I thought you wouldn’t immediately go dig up every piece of dirt we have on him, I might tell you.” 

Sylvain holds his hands up, smiling at her. The smile is fake and bitter, but by the way that Ingrid’s guard drops, even a little, she must buy it at least a bit. 

“We’re going to that hole-in-the-wall ramen place on nineteenth,” she says, giving him something else since she seems to be stubbornly refusing to give him a name.

Sylvain nods, feeling distracted. “Your favourite place,” he comments idly. 

Ingrid twists her bracelet around her wrist and then reaches up, fidgeting with her sleek ponytail. “Yeah.”

The silence settles between them again for a minute. 

“Right. Well, have fun.” 

* * *

Ingrid’s boyfriend’s name is Yuri. He’s charming and suave and she smiles when she texts him, often rolling her eyes when he messages her as if she’s fondly annoyed. They’re together for almost eight months before Ingrid finally tells anyone his name. They’re not living together, nor has she told him anything about what she really does besides “security” and “family business”. 

Sylvain has never met the guy for longer than a passing glance when Ingrid runs out to meet him places, but he _hates him_. He has no idea why, just that he does. His name makes Sylvain’s stomach turn and his blood boil and it’s an awful feeling. 

He’s a twenty-four-year-old man and he feels like a seven-year-old kid jealous of someone on a playground. There’s something about Ingrid that keeps drawing him in, even if she isn’t looking at him. He’s still lost in the memory of her from two years ago and Sylvain’s not stupid enough to pretend like he doesn’t know what’s going on. 

He’s a stupid, stupid man and he is a stupid man in love. 

He’s probably always loved her–loved her spirit, her grit, her passion. She’s been an angel in the underworld of Garreg Mach and Sylvain wishes he hadn’t been so stupid as to take her into his hands when he had. He should have loved her properly, not cheaply, drunkenly, shortly. 

* * *

They’re socializing at the office one night, all the Blue Lions, and Ingrid ends up leaving first. Sylvain’s two drinks in, so he can’t really control how his eyes follow her across the office as she goes. Annette and Ashe leave next, needing sleep before a long mission the next weekend. Mercedes leaves shortly after them, leaving Sylvain with Dimitri, Dedue, and Felix. 

Sylvain pours himself another drink and raises it to his lips until he realizes that the other three men are staring at him. Sylvain narrows his eyes and places the glass down on the table. Dimitri’s expression is the grimmest. Felix simply looks annoyed and Dedue is unreadable, as usual. 

“What is it? Is this some kind of intervention for a problem I definitely don’t have?” Sylvain asks suspiciously. 

“It’s not about you,” Felix says sharply. 

Sylvain sits straighter in his seat. “What?”

Dimitri sighs and drops a thick manila folder on the table. He slides it over to Sylvain. Sylvain opens it immediately and stops when he sees the name printed across the front page of the file. 

“Mockingbird,” he mutters. He looks up. “The S.E.I.R.O.S. informant?”

Dimitri nods slowly. “Ashe has been closing in on him and I don’t think you’re going to like what we’ve found.” 

Sylvain turns the page and the first photo he sees is a young man with long, stylish violet hair and sharp features. He’s pretty, objectively, and he has the perfect face for an intelligence agent: just honest enough looking to be trusted with entirely too many secrets. 

“Leclerc,” Sylvain reads, noting the man’s last name. The name is strangely familiar, but he can’t place it off the top of his head. He looks at Felix. “I’ll bite,” he says, “I know this guy, but how?”

“Turn the page,” Dedue suggests. 

Sylvain does. He shoots to his feet, his chair toppling over behind him and the table rattling as he slams his palms against it. He shakes his head and points at the photo on the second page. 

“Tell me you’re joking.” His voice comes out low, his anger barely suppressed. When none of the others say anything, Sylvain’s anger boils over. “Someone tell me this is a fucking joke!”

“It’s not,” Dimitri says finally, guiltily. 

Sylvain rubs a hand over his face, shaking his head. “And we let her walk out of here to meet him? What the fuck is wrong with all of you?”

“You should be the one to tell her,” Dimitri says. 

Sylvain lets out a choked laugh, turning to start pacing across the room. “Are you fucking kidding me? You think I should be the one to tell Ingrid that her boyfriend is only using her to gain information on the Blue Lions on behalf of S.E.I.R.O.S.?” He shakes his head. “This is a fucking joke.”

“It’s not,” Felix snaps, repeating Dimitri’s words. “Sylvain, she’ll listen to you.”

He stares at Felix. “She’d listen to literally any of you as well!”

“Then tell her because you care about her,” Felix snarls. 

Sylvain’s stomach turns uncomfortably. It’s not an accusation, just an observation, and it doesn’t quantify what he feels about Ingrid, but it’s not wrong. The fight drains out of Sylvain and he bends over, picking up the chair he had knocked over. He rights it and then picks up his drink, downing the glass. 

He grimaces faintly and practically drops the glass to the table. He closes the file and picks it up. Sylvain scowls at his friends. 

“For the record, you’re all assholes.”

* * *

He calls her to his apartment the next day, saying that it’s important. He almost goes to her place, but the file had made note of a need to be cautious around any spaces that her boyfriend might have infiltrated in her life. The thought of him listening in on Ingrid’s private home life makes Sylvain furious. 

Ingrid shows up just after noon, wearing workout gear with her hair tied into a tall ponytail. Sylvain is pacing in his kitchen when she buzzes him and he lets her up, a frowning etching into his features as she makes her way up. 

She enters his apartment and immediately eyes the path that Sylvain is pacing in his kitchen. She puts her hand on her hip. “What is it? What’s so urgent that we couldn’t have this talk later?”

Sylvain walks up to her and places his hands on her biceps, holding her arms as he makes eye contact with her. “Ingrid, please, promise me that you’ll hear me out first.” Her mouth opens and her brow furrows. Sylvain shakes his head. “Please, it’s important.”

She exhales slowly. “Fine.”

“Yuri Leclerc works for S.E.I.R.O.S.”

Ingrid's arm twists and her fist jams into his stomach. Sylvain grunts and drops his hands off of her arms. She slaps him across the face hard enough that his vision goes black for a split second and his neck stiffens like she’s just given him whiplash. 

Sylvain touches the edge of his lips tentatively, checking for split skin. He slowly turns his head back to face her. Ingrid has taken several steps back from him and she looks _furious_. 

“ _How dare you_!” she yells. “Sylvain, what the fuck is wrong with you?” 

He shakes his head. “I’m not fucking with you, Ingrid,” he mutters. He nods to the counter behind her where the file from Dimitri is sitting. “It’s all in there.”

The rage fades a bit and she looks conflicted. It’s like her mind is telling her to believe him, but her heart is telling her that he’s a liar. The confidence in her expression cracks as the rational side of her seems to start winning out over the impulsive side which had led her to slap him in the first place. 

“He doesn’t,” she says. Now, she sounds unsure. 

Sylvain leans back against his stove, giving her space, and he works his jaw, loosening the stiffness building in it. “I’m sorry, Ingrid,” he says quietly. 

She picks up the file, but she doesn’t open it. Ingrid doesn’t look at him again as she turns and marches out of his kitchen, her ponytail swinging behind her. Sylvain trails after her soundlessly, but she stays silent as she storms out of his apartment, his front door shutting with a slam. 

Sylvain sighs. “That went well.”

* * *

Garreg Mach doesn’t sleep. The city is quieter at night, but there’s always something happening. Sylvain stands on the covered balcony of his apartment, holding a glass of whisky, and staring down at the dark streets below, still dotted by cars. The quiet is punctuated by the sounds of night traffic with the occasional siren and the heavy rain. 

He looks up, staring at the dark sky. The heavy rain clouds blot out the moon, leaving the night to be illuminated only by the lights of the big city. The sound of the falling rain is soothing and rhythmic and Sylvain closes his eyes, breathing deeply as he lets the sound lull him. He rocks forward on his toes, almost leaving the shelter of his balcony’s overhang, but he stops himself before he can get wet. 

Behind him, his apartment buzzer blares. Sylvain turns, the moment shattering, and steps back inside. He shuts the sliding door behind him and then crosses his apartment. It’s almost midnight. No one should be visiting him at this hour. He answers the buzzer and waits for the speaker. 

At first, all he hears is muffled rain in the background, but then:

 _“Let me up.”_ Ingrid’s voice is flat and it’s hard to tell if she’s angry or something else. 

Sylvain buzzes her up immediately. He waits in his living room, sipping idly at his glass, as he waits for Ingrid to make her way up to his apartment for the second time today. It doesn’t take her long and Sylvain watches her enter. 

She’s not wearing a coat, instead just dressed in a black long-sleeved shirt and dark jeans. Her long hair is down and matted with rain. There is smudged makeup around her face, but Sylvain is unsure whether or not it’s from the rain or if she’s been crying. She shuts the door behind her with a click and Sylvain holds his breath, waiting for her to say something. 

She walks forward until she is a foot away from him. He can practically feel the chill radiating off of her rain-soaked body. Ingrid’s eyes flutter shut and a raindrop rolls down her forehead, catching in her eyelashes with a glimmer under the lights. 

“He told me everything,” she says. “Told me how long he’s been watching me– _using me_ –and that it was all true. Everything about the Abyss and S.E.I.R.O.S. and watching us to try to pin the Lions.”

Sylvain frowns. “Ingrid.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t.” She rubs a hand across her lips, looking upset. “I shouldn’t have been so stupid.”

He looks past her to the apartment door. “What are you doing here? If you talked to him, I’m assuming he’s gone.”

She sighs deeply. “I don’t know if he bugged my place. He says that he didn’t, but I just didn’t–”

“It’s fine,” Sylvain says. “You’re welcome here.”

Ingrid looks up, her green eyes blazing with something that’s definitely not sadness. It’s more like anger. She glances at his glass. “Pour me a drink?”

He nods, his eyes still locked with hers. It takes him a second to break the eye contact and the heavy feeling makes something prickle low in his gut. “Yeah.”

He walks over to his kitchen and pulls out a second glass, pouring her a heavy drink of the same expensive whisky that he’s drinking. Her fingers are cold when they touch his as she takes the glass and Sylvain opens his mouth to say something when Ingrid pounds the drink back, chugging it. She holds the glass back out for a refill and Sylvain narrows his eyes. 

“Ingrid,” he says gently. “I don’t think that this solves anything.”

She presses her lips together and steps around him, inserting herself between his back and the counter as she forcibly pours herself another drink, almost immediately downing that one too. Sylvain turns into her and he can feel the warmth radiating off of her. He stares at her back, noticing the way that her wet shirt and hair cling to her body. 

“It makes me feel better,” she says shortly. “Isn’t that enough?” 

Sylvain grabs her arm and spins her to face him. She drains the last of her second drink and tips her head, challenging him. “There are better ways to feel things,” he says, his voice dropping low. 

The distance between them shrinks. Sylvain’s not sure who’s moving between the two of them, but his hands land on Ingrid’s waist and her back presses into the counter as she looks up at him, her eyes burning. 

“Are there?” she asks, her words almost a whisper. 

Sylvain takes a deep breath, watching her. “This is a bad idea.”

“I think I’m allowed to make a few bad decisions,” Ingrid says breathily. Her chin tips up. 

“No,” Sylvain says, stepping back. He drops his hands away from her and his palms feel like they’re burning. “Ingrid, no.”

She follows him, her brow furrowing. “Sylvain.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Not yet.”

“You don’t want me, Ingrid. You want a distraction.” 

She steps into his space again. “Why is that so bad?”

Sylvain’s chest heaves as he shudders. Ingrid slips closer to him, sliding under his guard and landing her hands on the sides of his chest. His head drops down, his shoulders rounding. He _loves_ her. He _wants_ her. It’s a horrible, horrible idea, but Sylvain’s mind can only conjure the image of Ingrid, over two years ago, in his bed, rocking into his hand as she moaned. 

It’s like there’s a string between them and Sylvain feels like it’s reeling him into her, taking his resolve with it. He steps forward, cupping her face, and he kisses her, hot and open-mouthed. Ingrid’s hands fist in his hair immediately as she arches into him, gasping. 

Sylvain kisses her blindly and fiercely until she yanks back, her chest heaving. “Ingrid,” he growls. His restraint is crumbling like dust through an hourglass. It doesn’t matter if he knows that it’s a horrible idea. He still wants her. 

“Make me feel something,” she says, leaning up until their lips lightly graze together. 

Sylvain tenses. “You remember.”

“I remember that you didn’t let me repay the favour,” she murmurs. Ingrid kisses him again and Sylvain’s arm winds around her waist. 

Her clothes are wet, clingy, and cold as they press together. Her hair is heavy and damp as he grips it, pulling it lightly to tilt her head back further as he kisses her again and again. 

“I’m not worried about it,” he growls into her mouth, nipping at her bottom lip. 

Ingrid twists, maneuvering them. She steps forward, pushing a leg between his until her thigh grinds against him and Sylvain hisses. She forces him back until he meets the wall and there’s a rattling thud from a nearby mounted picture frame as the wall shakes. She breaks the kiss, staring at him. Her pupils are dilated and her cheeks are flushed and Sylvain’s resistance goes sailing out the window. 

“If I ask you to fuck me this time,” she breathes, “will you do it?”

If he once thought the image of Ingrid in his bed was something from the heavens, this Ingrid is waiting to drag him straight to hell and he is _so willing_. Nevermind the fact that they’ll both regret it later, Sylvain has lost the last shreds of whatever little resolve he had once had.

He reaches for her shirt first, drawing the wet fabric up her stomach. Ingrid pushes him back against the wall and ignores his efforts, reaching for his waistband. She has her hand jammed into his pants and he just manages to pull her shirt up so that it impedes her motions before she gets his pants open and she huffs in annoyance. 

She cups her hand over him and pushes, pressing the line of her body against him and Sylvain groans, his head thudding back against the wall. His eyes flutter shut as she strokes him over his underwear and then her touch pulls away. His eyes snap open in time to watch her wrestle her wet shirt over her head, dropping it to the ground. 

Sylvain reaches forward, cupping her jaw, and kisses her again, licking into her mouth as she sighs. Ingrid’s hand slips down again and this time she bares him to the air, curling her hand around him. Sylvain hisses into her mouth, biting her lip with no gentleness and Ingrid’s breath hitches and her hand stutters. 

“Sylvain,” she mumbles, her voice breathy. 

He drops a hand to her chest, cupping over her chest. Her grip on him tightens and he grunts as she pushes his hips back against the wall. “Ingrid,” he returns. His head is spinning as she continues to touch him, rocking her hand from base to tip, and sooner than he would like, he’s too breathless to keep kissing her. 

“Show me what you like,” Ingrid breathes as their kiss breaks and Sylvain groans, fumbling a hand to stop her from moving for a second as he breathes heavily. 

“Fuck.” He winces, his chest heaving as he holds her hand in place so she can’t do anything crazy like start moving again. Her word choice is intentional and he is going to lose his mind. 

Her thumb rubs a slow circle since she can’t move her hand. “Show me what you want me to do, Sylvain.”

Chest heaving and eyes closed, he bites his lip. Sylvain knows he is a selfish lover and he wants, desperately, to see her drop to her knees, but he can’t be selfish with Ingrid. The heavy part of his heart–the part that loves her–tells him to give and give and _give_ , but then Ingrid hums in her throat and her other hand draws a line down the side of his length. 

Even though she has asked him to show her, Ingrid apparently tires of Sylvain’s mental dilemma as her hand loosens and drops off of him. She reaches up, gathering her wet, matted blonde hair into a bun at the back of her head. It exposes the column of her throat and the line of her jaw and the dip in her collarbones that trails down to her breasts. 

Sylvain leans forward, intent on sinking his teeth into her skin, but Ingrid’s hand shoves him back until he thuds back against the wall and then she drops to her knees. Sylvain swears under his breath and immediately strokes the top of her head, feeling the coarse strands of her hair as she leans forward and takes him into his mouth. 

Sylvain hisses and his hips jerk unintentionally. Ingrid gags and pulls off, glaring at him. Her hands press his hips back against the wall as she sets her lips back to him. It takes less than a minute for his knees to tremble and his mind to short circuit and he basically rips her head back, almost knocking her back on her ass. 

He bends at the knees and pulls her up, shoving his face into her neck and biting down. She whines and struggles against him and Sylvain flips them, pinning her to the wall. He sucks hard at the skin of her neck and her fingernails dig into his scalp as she strains against him. 

“Wasn’t finished,” she gasps, tugging at the neck of his shirt. 

“You asked,” he mutters against her skin, “if I would fuck you this time.” He drags his tongue in a swipe down her jugular. 

Her breath catches. “Will you?”

Sylvain pauses, breathing heavily as he hovers over her shoulder. He presses a chaster kiss to the bra strap on her shoulder. 

“You’ll regret it tomorrow. We both will.”

Ingrid’s hand loosens in his hair, sliding across his head until she guides his face up so that they can make eye contact. “Don’t think about tomorrow.” Her thumb grazes his cheekbone and Sylvain’s heart skips. “What do you want tonight?”

He kisses her. “I want you,” he breathes, pulling back. “I always do.” 

Ingrid’s eyes widen and she visibly swallows. “Then have me.”

And he does. He makes her cum, gasping and writing on his fingers in his bedsheets. And then he fucks her, his fingers digging bruises into her thighs as she bucks into him, matching the pace that he sets. She comes again when he brushes between her legs with his hands and he almost tries for three before she locks her legs around his hips and drives him over the edge. 

She curls into him and Sylvain just lets her lay over him, loosening her hair out of its bun. He untangles it slowly, methodically. She lets out a small sound of protest but doesn’t stop him. Her breath falls across his collarbone, warm and even, and Sylvain lets his hand rest at the base of her skull until she falls asleep. 

She is soft and small in his arms and Sylvain feels like he is waiting for the world to be torn out from underneath him. He is dangling on the precipice of hell with an angel wrapped in his arms. She is fallen and hurting and tortured and he is a fool for indulging in her. She’ll wake up tomorrow and this night will be a mistake and he will be left to pick up the pieces of his heart she will leave behind. 

* * *

Ingrid is gone when he wakes. There’s a note on his counter. 

_Sorry. I shouldn’t have stayed. - I_

Sylvain’s heart falls to pieces in his chest as he traces the simple signature at the end of the note. 

* * *

Just like last time, Ingrid says nothing about what had transpired between the two of them. She seems to take her and Yuri’s break-up remarkably well, much to the suspicion of the other Blue Lions. Sylvain says nothing on the subject when questioned. He had done as he had been asked, delivering the news to her. The rest is all Ingrid, he reminds. 

His body aches for hers despite it. 

It must be a lot to process, but Ingrid bears the burden on her shoulders without flinching as she pushes forward, throwing herself into her work. The Blue Lions keep her busy, sending her on ops, assigning her in-office work when she can’t be out and around, and Sylvain wonders if she’s going to drive herself into the ground. 

He catches her sleeping late at the office a few nights and rouses her carefully to send her home. If he affectionately brushes aside a lock of hair before he shakes her shoulder, no one will ever know. 

Sylvain, for the most part, can push aside his feelings for Ingrid. She doesn’t indicate that she feels the same way, but she doesn’t push him away either. They stay friends and Sylvain, despite the spinning regret in his stomach, is okay with that. 

* * *

It’s almost ten months later that Sylvain wakes up to his phone ringing. He jolts, rolling onto his stomach and grabbing for the phone. He answers the call without checking the caller ID. 

“It’s Sylvain,” he mutters, voice rough with sleep. 

“ _How soon can you get to the Hrym?_ ” 

Sylvain sits up so quickly he almost gets lightheaded. 

“Annette?”

“ _Felix and Dimitri are out of town and I can’t get a hold of Dedue or Ashe and I told her this was a bad idea, but she insisted on doing it anyway,_ ” Annette rambles desperately over the phone. 

Ice settles in Sylvain’s veins and he kicks back his covers. “Annette, I need you to tell me what’s going on?”

“ _Ingrid went into the Hrym alone tonight and I lost comms with her._ ” 

Sylvain staggers out of bed, immediately grabbing a shirt off his dresser, pulling it on. “Why the hell did she go to the Hrym, a club in Eagle territory, alone?” he hisses. 

He presses his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he hurriedly dresses. The ice that had collected in his veins starts to spread across his body. His shoulders are tense and his movements feel jerky and brittle as he swallows back the panic bubbling in his throat. 

“ _She was just supposed to make a drop. It was an in and out job, but she went in and I haven’t seen her come out. She’s not on comms and I’m too afraid to try her phone_ ,” Annette explains. 

Sylvain snags a jacket from the back of his bedroom door and runs his hands through his hair, trying to ruffle it into something that doesn’t look like he just rolled out of bed. He slides on a heavy ring and snags his wallet and the keys to his bike. He grabs his helmet from the door. 

“I’m on my way to get her,” Sylvain says. “Can you clear a safehouse for us?”

“ _Consider it done. I’ll have the one on fifth ready_.”

Sylvain doesn’t wait any longer. He ends the call and leaves his apartment, his blood pounding in his ears. 

* * *

He leaves his bike half on the sidewalk outside the club and hooks his helmet on the handlebars. The insignia painting on the side of it should be enough to deter any potential thieves, and he strides towards the front door. The bouncer has a Black Eagle insignia on a pendant around his neck and he’s not stupid enough to miss the Blue Lion ring that Sylvain is wearing. 

The man’s smile is all teeth as he waves Sylvain into the club, clearly excited for the prospect of there potentially being some kind of clash inside. Sylvain enters quickly, already scanning the club for any sign of Ingrid. 

The music is ground-shakingly loud and the lights are bright and gaudy. The dance floor on the first floor of the club is packed but Sylvain doesn’t waste time looking around it. If Ingrid was here to make a drop, she’ll be on the second floor in the VIP section. 

Sylvain brushes through the crowd to the stairs and, just like at the door, the guard at the base of the stairs waves him up after seeing the Blue Lions insignia. They’re probably expecting him to stir up trouble, something Sylvain isn’t interested in doing unless he absolutely has to. 

The second floor of the club is no less loud, but it is less crowded. A few people cast him sideways glances and one woman, clad in a skimpy, sequined dress approaches him, but he waves her off. She pouts, but Sylvain just keeps moving, scanning for Ingrid. 

His gaze catches on a table in the corner where a young woman sits with three bulky men in matching dark suits. He can’t see the woman’s face, but he recognizes the blonde hair and the muscled line of her upper back and he immediately heads towards them. He doesn’t think about the consequences of his action until he is standing almost directly behind the woman and the eyes of one of the men darts up to him. 

The man scowls. “Brought a friend, did you?”

“What?” Ingrid says, spinning in her chair. She spots Sylvain and anger flickers across her expression. She immediately looks away from him back to the men that she must be making some kind of deal with. “He’s not here because I asked him to be.”

One of the men chuckles. “Whatever you say, girlie.”

Ingrid huffs. “Look, are we done here? We’ll leave and nothing has to come from this besides the agreed-upon price.” She gestures to the table and Sylvain notices the fist-sized ruby in the centre of the table. 

One of the men picks it up, studying it, and then he gives Sylvain a nasty look. “Fine,” he grouses. “Take your soldier and get lost.”

Ingrid stands up, smoothing her hands down across the tight-fitting skirt she’s wearing. She turns to Sylvain and doesn’t notice as one of the men at the table reaches out, his hand moving for Ingrid’s rear. Sylvain steps forward and grabs the man’s wrist, twisting it and slamming it against the table. 

The man growls and Sylvain glares at him. “I wouldn’t try that again,” he snarls. 

Ingrid grabs Sylvain’s arm and jerks him away, dragging him towards the stairs back to the first floor. They’re barely five paces away from the table when she adjusts her grip on his arm so that her nails dig into his arm. 

“What the fuck, Sylvain?” she demands. “You almost blew up the deal!”

He scoffs. “Really? You’re going to give me shit? Why didn’t you check in with Annette? She called me, freaking out, so that’s why I’m here.”

“Because I had it handled! I went off comms to assure them that there was nothing funny going down,” she snaps. “It would have been fine!”

They hurry down the stairs onto the first floor and before Sylvain can respond to Ingrid, there’s a shout from above them and it does not sound happy. Ingrid winces and hauls Sylvain onto the dancefloor, pushing them into a crowd of people. She spins into him, pressing them chest-to-chest, and pulls his hands to her waist like she wants to dance. 

Sylvain immediately follows her lead, leaning into her touch and letting her hide against him. “What are you doing?” he hisses. 

“I had an ulterior motive in dropping the gem tonight,” she mutters. 

From outside the club, Sylvain hears the faint sound of a siren. Sylvain laughs disbelievingly. 

“Holy fuck, you brought S.E.I.R.O.S down on this place.”

Ingrid pulls away from him just enough to look into his face. “Yes, and they definitely wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t made them already suspicious so now we have to get the fuck out of here before there’s a crackdown. How did you get here?”

“Bike. Annette prepped a safehouse on fifth for us, so we just have to get out and we should be able to get through a roadblock.”

Ingrid shifts against him, pressing closer, as they awkwardly maneuver across the packed dance floor as more sirens sound outside. Finally, when they are close enough to duck out of the club, Sylvain grabs her arm and pulls her off the dance floor. The bouncer stares at them as they push past, looking confused and Sylvain doesn’t pause even to flash a smug smile as he darts towards his bike. 

Ingrid climbs on behind him and Sylvain shoves the helmet into her hands. She scowls, but she doesn’t fight him over it. Her skirt hikes up as she squeezes her legs around the bike behind him. Ingrid’s arms wrap around his waist and he guns the engine, pushing off of the curb and shooting down the dark street. 

He weaves through two oncoming cars with sirens flashing, but his move is clean enough that neither can peel off to stop him. Ingrid’s grip tightens around him as he banks hard around a corner. 

“I would have been fine,” she yells to him over the roaring of the motorcycle’s engine. 

Sylvain scoffs. “That’s not a risk I was willing to take.”

Her hands curl into fists on his chest, but she doesn’t argue with him further. Sylvain focuses on driving away from the Hrym, his blood humming in his ears. She probably would have been fine, but that doesn’t stop the fact that he had been worried, that every part of him had wanted to grab her, hold her, and protect her. 

A quick check tells him that they haven’t picked up a tail on their way to the safehouse, so he turns into the alley where the safehouse is located without pulling any fancy moves. He stops the bike by the heavy metal door and Ingrid leaps off as soon as they stop moving, pulling her skirt down a bit. Heat coils in Sylvain’s gut as his eyes drag across her, taking in the tight skirt and shimmery top that she’s wearing. She hands the helmet back to him and there’s what feels like a physical spark between them when their fingers brush. 

Sylvain grabs her arm before she can lean away from him and he closes the distance until his lips are hovering just above hers. Ingrid’s breath hitches and her eyes drop down, landing on his mouth. Sylvain slowly extends his arms, placing his palms over her hips. 

Ingrid swallows. “You didn’t have to come and get me,” she whispers, her breath warm on his face. 

“I disagree,” he says. “You didn’t even have a getaway plan.”

Ingrid lifts her arms, placing her hands on his shoulders. Sylvain rests back against the bike, letting her lean against him in the dark alley. Her arms slide up, looping around his neck as she draws him in closer. She smells like some cheap perfume with a dash of sweat common to cheap clubs like the Hrym and Sylvain wants to taste her. 

“Call Annette,” he instructs. 

“Didn’t bring my phone,” she replies, her green eyes dark in the gloom of the alley. 

“Front pocket,” Sylvain says. 

Ingrid shifts, resting more of her weight against him as her hand runs slowly down over Sylvain’s chest until she reaches the waist of his pants. It’s only the thought of Annette, fretting and worrying, that stops him from kissing her right then. She slides his phone out slowly like she’s intentionally teasing him as she lifts it. 

She unlocks it easily and dials Annette’s number. “Hi, Annette.” There’s a muffled reply that Sylvain can’t hear, but even if the phone had been on speaker, he probably wouldn’t have processed it anyways because his hands are still on Ingrid’s hips and there’s a plan spinning into the front of his mind. 

Ingrid says something else to Annette on the line, but Sylvain is focused on the way that her eyes are locked on his lips as her chest rises and falls with each breath. She ends the call quickly and Sylvain lets his fingers dig into the tops of her thighs as he slides his hands an inch lower on her hips. 

Ingrid keeps a straight face, but she does adjust her body, sliding one leg between Sylvain’s so that with him leaning against the bike, she’s practically straddling his left thigh. Sylvain tilts his head, pressing his lips to the top of her cheekbone. 

“Safehouse, huh?” Ingrid asks breathily. “Should we be inside?”

Sylvain’s hands slip down further and then he slides his right hand under the hem of her skirt and it creeps up the inside of her thigh. Ingrid jolts as he walks his fingers across her skin. The tight material of the skirt hikes up as Sylvain pushes his hand up her leg to the tops of her thighs. 

Ingrid rocks into him, her lips parting as he rubs his thumb between her legs. Her eyes flutter and she makes a breathy noise. Sylvain hums, pushing a bit harder, and kisses the hinge of her jaw, sucking lightly. 

“Sylvain,” she mumbles, her hips shifting into his touch unintentionally. 

He nips at her ear. “Aren’t you supposed to make smart decisions?” He uses his nail to press against the band of her underwear and Ingrid’s hips rock into his hand again. “Aren’t we not supposed to go places alone?”

Ingrid digs one of her hands into his shoulder until it almost hurts. She makes a faint humming noise that almost breaks into a whimper as Sylvain slides a finger beneath her underwear. He curls it against her, rolling his knuckle between her legs and she shivers, her lips parting. 

“Sylvain,” she whines softly. 

He bites lightly at her throat and Ingrid twitches, her hips jerking. He soothes the bite with a softer kiss and then, in her ear, whispers, “Don’t do that to me.”

The hand that’s not on his shoulder drops to his forearm, pushing on it, trying to get him to move his hand. Sylvain swipes his fingers across the length of her and Ingrid trembles, curling until her head rests against his shoulder. 

“Not here,” she begs. 

Sylvain pulls his hand back. He tugs her skirt down over her thighs again and pushes off his motorcycle, forcing them both to stand up straight. “Come on.” He looks over his shoulder to the mouth of the alley. Distantly, he can still hear the sirens from S.E.I.R.O.S.’s Hrym bust. “We probably shouldn’t stay out in the open.”

He walks past her to the door of the safehouse and punches in the code in the electronic lock. He opens the door and then looks back at Ingrid who hasn’t moved from next to the bike. Her skirt is still hiked up higher than usual and her cheeks are pink. Indignation flares across her face as she walks over to him, jabbing her finger against his chest. 

“Hypocrite! You’re the one who was about to–” she cuts off, flushing and Sylvain smirks. 

“What? Finger you? Didn’t seem like you were protesting that much.”

He steps inside the safehouse and turns on the light. It’s a small room with a sink, counter, table, closet and bed. Inside the closet, there will be a small arsenal of weapons along with emergency communication devices if they had really been burned, but the need for the safehouse tonight is more so that they don’t get tracked by S.E.I.R.O.S. while going home. 

Sylvain barely gets two steps into the safehouse before Ingrid grabs the back of his shirt. She uses her grip to pull him back towards her as she closes the door and presses her back to it. Sylvain turns into her, meeting her halfway as he cups her face and kisses her. Ingrid rises into him, one arm locking around his neck and the other wandering to the waistband of his jeans. 

Sylvain lightly bites her lip and drops his hand down, pushing between them and shoving her skirt up again. Ingrid huffs as he gets his hand back on her, working between her legs. He slides one finger into her almost immediately and swallows her groan with his lips as he pumps slowly a few times. After only a few motions, he curls a second finger into her and Ingrid breaks the kiss, her head snapping back and thudding against the door as she moans. 

Sylvain watches her face: eyebrows scrunched, cheeks flushed, and lips parted. The vision of her, trembling in his hands against the door of the safehouse, is the most beautiful thing that he has ever seen. He twists his hand, thrusting into her as he rubs his thumb against her and she keens, her knees almost buckling. 

“Beautiful,” he breathes, repeating the motion. 

She struggles against him for a moment and Sylvain glances down as she kicks off the heels that she had been wearing. The movement shifts Sylvain’s hand and Ingrid whines again, her arm tightening around his neck as she leans her weight into him. 

He thinks about three years ago when she had first come to him asking for him to help her feel. He thinks about months ago when she had come to him, hurting and confused and in need of a distraction. He had taken what she had given and given what he could, but it’s a poor representation of the truth of how he feels about her. 

He slides his hand out of her slowly. He kisses her again, more gently. “I have a better idea,” he breathes. 

With her arm still looped around his neck, he bends, scooping her up under her knees and walking to the bed. He places her down carefully and kisses the corner of her lips. He reaches for her shirt, drawing the sparkly fabric up until she sheds it. With her top bared, he pushes her shoulder until she crawls back. He follows her, letting a hand find the zipper on the side of her hip for her skirt. 

Ingrid lifts her hips as he pulls her skirt down and then she kicks it away. Sylvain uses that opportunity to kick his shoes off and move fully onto the bed over her. He pushes her knees apart and kneels between her legs. Propped up on his hands, he looks at her. 

Her skin is flushed and warm and it’s like his own slice of heaven for him to consume. Her hair comes out of its updo, spreading around her head on the pillow like a golden halo and she bites her lower lip as if she’s nervous. She has no reason to be. 

Sylvain leans down, pressing a soft kiss to her collarbone. “Beautiful,” he says into her skin. 

He moves down, kissing across her chest, stroking the bottoms of her breasts, and then he shifts down further. Ingrid jolts as he does, pushing herself up onto her elbow as she watches him get settled between her legs. There’s a heavy red flush in her cheeks as he thumbs the band of her underwear. 

“Sylvain, what are you doing?”

He kisses her hip slowly. “Showing you your worth,” he answers. “Relieving some stress. Proving that you need to take better care of yourself.”

Her brows knit. “Take better care?” she echoes. 

Sylvain pulls her underwear down and leans forward. He presses a kiss to the inside of one of her thighs and her hips hitch. He leans forward, stroking his tongue slowly, methodically across her. Ingrid’s arms give out and she drops onto her back, whining loudly. 

“Doesn’t that feel better?” he purrs, repeating the motion slowly. 

She shivers above him, a broken moan escaping her. “Sylvain, I–”

He wraps lips around her and sucks. Her back arches and one of her hands grabs at his hair, gripping tightly. He stays on her for a moment, sucking and licking as she trembles and gasps above him. She tastes salty and he wonders how he let himself bed her twice before without doing this for her. 

“You’re good, Ingrid,” he murmurs. “So good.”

She wheezes a low breath and he looks up at her. Her chest is heaving and her eyes are locked on him. Sylvain smiles at her as he lifts a hand and slides two fingers into her. Ingrid bucks against him, moaning loudly. The sound is angelic. 

He sets himself back to her, working her until not even his name comes out clean from her lips as she writhes atop the blanket. He works her until she comes, trembling and wailing, shaking on his hands and he licks at her until the hand in his hair jerks his head back. 

“Enough, Sylvain,” she gasps. “Point made.”

He laughs and rubs his thumbs against the insides of her thighs. “Ingrid, you didn’t think that was it, did you?”

The words “I love you” linger on his tongue, heavy and metallic. They’re all wrong for the situation so he sinks his teeth into the meat of her thighs instead, ghosting a light touch between her legs. He wants to open the flood gate and tell her how worried he had been, how desperate for her to be okay, and how much it had hurt when he had woken up without her last time, but the words stick in his throat. 

He uses his actions instead, tracing her scars and bruises and touching her until she is a mess beneath him. He kisses her hips, her legs, her breasts. He worships her even as his feelings dig deeper in his chest, burying him in unspoken adoration. 

She cums three times before he moves away. He fetches her water, lets her reset her racing heart and rapid breaths and then he tugs her atop him, finally shedding his own clothes. He pulls her down slowly and then sits back, letting her set the pace. She rides him leisurely, rocking her hips rhythmically, and she plants one hand on his chest to balance herself and uses the other to touch herself until she’s gasping and slumping against him, her body completely spent. 

Sylvain forces his hips down against the bed as he breathes out slowly as she flutters around him. Even exhausted, Ingrid touches his face lightly. 

“You haven’t–”

“I’m fine.”

“Sylvain,” she argues. 

He slowly rocks his hips. “I don’t think,” he murmurs, “you can take what I need.” 

He rolls them carefully, pulling away from her slowly. She lets out a trembling sigh when he withdraws. He props himself up on one arm as he looks down at her. Her hair is wild and messy and her skin is flushed and sweaty and she is no less radiant than she was when he had first laid her down here. 

He curls his hand around himself and squeezes, working himself through it. He’s close, his eyes shutting in ecstasy, when her hand touches over his own. Sylvain groans and she takes over, working him until he’s hunching against her, shuddering as he spills warm and sticky in her hand and over her stomach. 

Her hand lingers, stroking him even after and Sylvain huffs, nudging her wrist back. He rests on his side and she rolls towards him, her hand still a mess with him. Spent, exhausted, and sated, Sylvain hums quietly. 

They’re both silent for a few minutes, letting their heaving breaths settle into something more normal. Ingrid breaks the silence first. 

“Sylvain, what is this?”

 _It’s love_ , he longs to confess. He wants to hold her, comfort her and keep her to himself, but he cannot be selfish with her. 

“As I said,” he says, “it’s just a bit of stress relief.”

The lie tastes ugly in his mouth and it makes his stomach turn, but there’s no mistaking the relief on her face when he lies. 

“Oh,” she says, her eyes closing. “And, I guess we don’t speak of this again. Just like last time.”

He should say yes. Let it end here. Instead: “Or you could come to me next time you need something and I’ll take care of you.”

She opens her eyes, rolling towards him a bit, looking curious. “You would?”

He chuckles. “Always.”

Ingrid leans in, kissing the bottom of his lip. “Sure,” she says. “That works.”

She gets up then, moving away to clean herself up a bit and Sylvain can’t tear his eyes from her. The first time he had chased her away. The second time she had fled on her own. He gets a little bit hopeful here when neither of them runs away this time. 

He leans back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling of the safehouse. It’s a slice of time–a stolen moment–and there’s no promise that this feeling will last into the outside world. There’s nothing holy about the way that he watches her here, but when she comes back to him, laying her head against his chest, it feels a little bit divine. 

**Author's Note:**

> ....sorry
> 
> I promise it gets resolved if you read the sequel. I'm sure this isn't what people were expecting when I said that I would work in this world again, but it just happened (it's mish's fault blame her) and i was in a mood.
> 
> The sequel is [like a star falls (in fewer words)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27475147)
> 
> I've just been... in a mood. anyway, I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/nicolewrites37), i promise I'm mostly fun and games and sfw, silly sylvgrid. sometimes there just needs to be a little sad


End file.
